"I'm going to be a journalist."
"When did you decide that?" Midoriya asks evenly. Kota wonders why they sit on the porch instead of going inside the cottage. This is the fifth time he's come to visit, and he's never been inside—not since the first time. It's not like Midoriya is able to enjoy the view. A sunset in the mountains is nothing to scoff at. He stares out at the expanse of yellow-green grasses, the smattering of wildflowers in the clearing, as he considers Midoriya's question.
"Not sure. I think, maybe, after my parents died."
He was too young to even think about the future when they died, but he grew up wanting the world to know his pain—to know that there was more to heroes and villains than rose-tinted ideals and choreographed fight sequences.
There's a short pause in conversation as Kota's words sink in. That always happens. He's used to it. At least, with Midoriya and his endless supply of shirt blindfolds, he won't have to see his pitying gaze.
"I'm sorry that happened to you."
"You're not going to ask how they died? Or how old I was?"
"I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to," Midoriya says, a placid smile visible on his face. Kota scoffs at his kindness.
"You could never be a journalist. You're too nice."
"I used to want to be a hero, before all this." He gestures vaguely at his face, a red shirt obscuring his eyes today. Kota scoffs again.
"I don't like heroes much."
"Why's that?"
"My parents were heroes and they died. My aunt and her friends are heroes, and they could die any second. I think they're blinded—forgive my phrasing—by the idea of heroism, and so is everyone else. They don't need to die, and people definitely didn't need to tell me it was an honor they died when I was only five years old."
"I'm sorry that happened to you."
Kota grimaces, slightly annoyed by the repetitive sympathy. It makes his skin itch, and he lashes out.
"I'm sorry you live in the middle of nowhere with a shirt on your face."
"I only have a shirt on my face when you're here. Otherwise, I get to be my normal self."
Kota frowns, feeling like that was a jab at him. He knows Midoriya is secretly thrilled to have someone to talk to. Mandalay is all for it, too. She's not sly about her needling comments that Kota make some friends.
"Are you a cyclops?"
"Very subtle." Midoriya laughs self-consciously, but offers no straight answer.
"I can't be a journalist if I don't ask the tough questions."
"I'm not a cyclops. I don't have fangs. Snakes freak me out. What other rumors are there about me?" Midoriya says casually, ticking off old myths about him on his fingers.
"I think you covered them all, but you said you have one eye."
"That's true."
Midoriya isn't what Kota would call chatty, but this is the first time he's deliberately given nothing away. Kota presses the issue, knowing he'll have a hell of a story to tell.
"But you're not a cyclops."
"No." The word is clipped, a warning—just like all the signs on the trail up to his cabin. Go no further. Kota resolutely ignores it.
"So what happened to your other eye?"
"It's gone."
"Where'd it go?"
"For a walk down the trail."
"Midoriya," he snaps, just shy of pouting. Midoriya sigh, his shoulders dropping. His next words are spoken with zero inflection.
"I took it out. With scissors when I was sixteen. I wanted to get rid of the other one but it hurt too much. My body literally wouldn't let me do it."
"You… what?"
"You wanted to ask the tough questions. You have to be prepared for tough answers."
—
Izuku remembers it all. Every sound, every sensation. He remembers staring at himself in the mirror, wishing his Quirk worked on him like the actual myth of Medusa. He wished he could turn himself to stone, so no one else would have to suffer.
He remembers the scissors he pocketed from his mom's sewing box—the reassuring weight of them in his palm, the sharp, glinting metal of the blades. He remembers holding the point up to his eyelid, squeezing them shut in morbid anticipation, his breath ragged and panicked, but there was no turning back once Izuku made up his mind.
The pain was excruciating. It brought him to his knees in an instant, a howl scraping from his throat unbidden. He couldn't keep a hold on the scissors, couldn't open his remaining eye to find them on the bathroom floor.
When his mother found him, screeching and wailing, convulsing from the pain, the only words he'd said—screamed, he screamed at his poor, sweet mother—were, "Take the other one. Hurry!"
Izuku recounts the entire sordid tale for Kota, but only because he pushed him for the information. Part of Izuku thinks he tells him so Kota will understand how dangerous he really is. The monster on the mountain may not be physically as scary as everyone believes, but he's still a monster.
"I'm sorry that happened to you," Kota mumbles, clearly put off. Izuku's sure that if he could see Kota—if he knew what he looked like—his face would be pinched in guilt.
"I did it to myself."
"Why, though?"
"I was… scared. I had just started high school, and my friend—my friend who always kept me safe from bullies—wasn't around anymore. Something bad happened."
"They hurt you?"
Izuku shrugged, wringing his hands in his lap. It wasn't that they hurt him. He'd been kicked around a lot. He was used to that. He wrestles with himself; with how much he should say—how best to say it.
"My homeroom had a class pet," he begins, trailing off. "A guinea pig. There was a rumor going around that I was actually Quirkless—mostly because I never talked about my Quirk—and everyone said I wore a blindfold for attention."
"That's stupid."
"That's high school."
Kota doesn't say anything else, and Izuku assumes he's waiting for him to continue. He isn't sure why the silence spurs him on.
"One of the bigger bullies grabbed me one day, maybe a month into the first semester. He took off my blindfold and shoved my face against the cage. He said show me your Quirk and I'll let you go."
"And you did it?"
Izuku remembers. He remembers the bars of the cage poking into his skin, and the smell of the wood flakes, and the little grunting noises the guinea pig made, obviously terrified. Izuku cried and begged, but the hands on his neck gripped harder, nails digging into his flesh like claws. The gathering students jeered at him, banging their hands on desks, laughing and shrieking at his expense.
He remembers opening his eyes, seeing his classroom for the first time. It looked too plain to be a place that caused him so much grief.
"Nineteen people died because they wouldn't just leave me alone."
Izuku feels the shame well up inside him. His lip wobbles and his throat closes up and he hates himself for remembering the vindictive pleasure he felt when he looked his tormentors in the eye for the first and last time. He refrains from telling Kota how addictive it was—the triumph he felt knowing he'd never be bothered by that boy again. He didn't stab his eye out because he felt guilty. He took it out because he felt justified. He didn't trust himself anymore.
—
"By now, you've heard about the yakuza scum running around," Endeavor barks, his stupid flaming beard flaring up. Katsuki crosses his arms, unimpressed with the display. Endeavor is washed up, and it's only a matter of time before Katsuki topples his rating. Detective Tsukauchi takes a blatant step to the left to avoid the flames, doing his best to appear friendly and professional.
"Some of you may have been involved with cases concerning Trigger, the new Quirk enhancing drug on the black market," Tsukauchi says, and recent case files appear on the screen behind him. One picture shows one of Katsuki's takedowns from the previous week. Even with the drug, the extra was useless.
"Fat Gum and his agency are still working to narrow down the distribution line, but they stumbled upon something far more alarming." The detective pushes a button, and the slide changes. Pictures of a small, pin-like bullet and a special gun full up the screen.
"Apparently, there's a companion drug—one that erases Quirks."
Katsuki perks up, suddenly on high-alert, one word bouncing around his head.
Deku.
"Permanent erasure?" He blurts out. Endeavor glares at the unwelcome interruption. Katsuki glares back, unafraid.
"No, Ground Zero. This strain is only temporary. Like Trigger, it only works anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, but we have reason to believe that won't be the case for long."
Even if it's only temporary, it's something. Tsukauchi goes on and on about Nighteye's agency, and the task force they're putting together to find the people responsible. Katsuki's only half-listening. The other half of him is thinking about Deku, about turning up at his cabin in the mountains with that drug in hand.
He thinks about seeing his eyes again for the first time in twenty years. He thinks about the promise he made him so long ago, as he sat listlessly in his small room in the psych ward.
When I'm a hero, Deku, I'll do everything I can to fix this.
He remembers removing his blindfold, remembers seeing exactly what Deku did to himself. A jagged slash in irritated, pink skin, his eyelid half-gone. He remembers pressing his face into Deku's hair, his lips on his forehead, brushing against his cheeks, and finally, the lightest kiss on his remaining eye. He promised himself he'd see his bright green eyes at least once more in his lifetime. Even if it kills him.
